I could feel her eyes on me before I woke up.
Half-asleep, I lifted my head. For a brief moment, our eyes met in the dark. Her eyes glittered under dark bangs, an outlaw's hat, high cheekbones casting shadows in the dim light. Her eyes narrowed as she cocked her head, one eyebrow raised. A challenge. Was I crazy, or was that a half smile on her face?
Just as suddenly as she came, she left, walking down the same narrow dark hallway. I was just able to make out a hint of her incredible figure from behind before I gave up, burying my head in my arm again.
Then I remembered where I was.
************************
The room was suddenly flooded with light. I was jolted awake by the shouts of men. "Wake up!" they commanded, leering into the cages. "Wake up. Everyone up." Roberto and Lorenzo. Two local louts with crew cuts and aggressively flexed biceps. Roberto stopped in front of Julia's cage, grinning menacingly as she struggled to her knees, hands still cuffed on her back behind her long blonde hair.
Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I shed the threadbare blanket and rolled off the drab cotton pallat lying on the hard wood floor. Naked, I shivered slightly in the cool basement. I assumed the position that had been drilled into us during our training: On our knees, hands clasped behind our back, breasts thrust slightly forward. Eyes down.
Ready to serve.
There were twelve of us at the moment, in the basement that functioned as some sort of holding pen, as far as anyone had bothered to explain to me. 12 cages adjoined in the center of the pen, close enough that we could reach our hands through and touch each other at night - which, of course, was against the rules and punishable by cuffing, isolation, or a turn on the sawhorse.
There was no talking, but in the brief moments when we were left unsupervised we had been able to glean information about each other. Almost everyone had come from a raid on Horvath, Gant, or the neighboring towns. Most were ladies' maids, or well-respected nieces of provincial yet wealthy landlords. A few, like Julia, were gentility. One was a governess.
Over the three months I had spent in the dungeon I had gone up for auction six times, and managed to learn a few useful bits of information in the process. The dungeon was controlled by a man named Ted Kilgrave. Everyone else worked for him. Kilgrave made his living in high society, farming slave girls from the upper echelons of far-flung corners of the empire. Kilgrave's women had a reputation for beauty, elegance, and submission - a rare and deadly combination you couldn't find at the local market. His slaves could fetch staggeringly high sums depending on their looks and their pedigree. Men would pay a high price to defile the face of the daughter of an enemy family. Courts would parade Kilgrave's trophies around on leashes like prized greyhounds.
As far as dungeons go, this one was relatively tolerable. The bathrooms, for example, were emptied regularly by the maids (or whoever happened to be due for a punishment). We were taken to an airy first-floor room to exercise occasionally, and we were bathed semi-regularly. Those of us who were up for auction always enjoyed a real bath with perfumed oils the week showings were scheduled.
Kilgrave was hesitant to use force on his girls. Whippings and spankings left marks, as did chaining. Bruises lowered a girl's value, and with the constant possibility that someone might drop by to view the collection, it was never safe to leave a mark. Instead, obedience was instead achieved through other means. Punishments were a common occurrence; I was regularly made to kneel and scrub every inch of floor in the house or paraded around naked in front of guests for infractions like attempting to use my hands during feeding-time. For major infractions, the guards were more creative. Rapes were common, and it was not unheard of for someone to be taken to an all-night session, returning limping and exhausted the next morning with an aching jaw. Occasionally, a new slave would be shown the sawmill: Spread-eagled to the device in a back room, with all her holes open and available for use at any time. Most of us learned quickly after that.
From Mary, the one-time scullery maid who was occasionally friendly to me during punishments, I had learned that every slave has a shelf life. If they stay in the pen too long, Kilgrave decides they won't sell. Most are sold to local dealers, who traffic in rougher clientele. A few joined a harem of women Kilgrave kept in a house and rented out to anyone willing to pay. I wasn't approaching my shelf life, but I didn't want to find out what might happen if I was.
*****************
Suddenly the louts snapped to attention, hands raised in salute. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kilgrave enter the dungeon. He was well-dressed as usual in sharp khakis, riding boots, a white button-down and a vest. He was laughing at something the woman behind him had said, turning toward her flirtatiously for a comeback. As I followed his eye line, my stomach dropped. I quickly averted my eyes.
It was her.
Entering the dungeon behind Kilgrave, I had caught just a glimpse, but there was no denying that it was her. The woman I had seen watching me sleep, stalking us in the night. No wonder I couldn't see much of her in the dim light: She wore all black, from hat to boots. Although she wore trousers and a form-fitting vest rather than the full skirts that were popular among nobility, signs of aristocracy dripped off her, from the jewels accentuating the outfit to the sharp cut of her features to the soft Italian leather of her boots. I kept my eyes on them as she walked by my cell. I could see a leather whip strapped to her side.
"Pick whatever you like, darling," said Kilgrave, kissing her on the cheek. "The boys will be more than happy to set up a private showing." Roberto and Lorenzo affirmed him with a "Sir".
"Now if you'll excuse me, I have company upstairs that I must attend to." He turned to leave. If I knew Kilgrave, that 'company' was likely his newest acquisition, Sapphire, a Dame from the hill country.
The air was still as the mystery woman walked in slow circles around the pen, occasionally stopping to tap her feet or murmur assent. "You like that one?" Roberto's voice cut through. It came from behind me. They were talking about Julia.
"It's not bad," she purred. She had a beautiful voice: Rich and smooth, like her laugh. A deep, commanding voice, with just a hint of a throaty whisper. "What's the pedigree?"
"Aristocrats," said Roberto. "Nobility, from the Lazarus region. She's beautiful, this one. Educated, talented. You won't do better." She must be wealthy if they're showing her Julia, I thought.
